


Synthetic: VIII: GASOLINE

by Kitty Fisher (kittyfisher)



Series: Synthetic [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Dom/sub, M/M, Past Abuse, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 16:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8408824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyfisher/pseuds/Kitty%20Fisher
Summary: the road to Dad. With revelations and determinations. Oh, and sex.





	

Synthetic: VIII: GASOLINE  
Kitty Fisher

 

“We should’ve stayed longer.”

“Dean, c’mon – we’ve been over this ten times since yesterday!”

“Just ‘cause we’ve talked it to death, doesn’t mean we’re doing the right thing…”

“We are. Stop being a jerk.”

Which makes Dean sigh. Trapped by construction work on a small road that really, if there were any fairness, should have been a fast cut-through to the Interstate, they sit, sweating. Humidity has turned the Impala into a sauna, and both of them are stripped of their jackets. Not that losing that layer helps much - Dean’s T-shirt is sticking uncomfortably to his back and he can see droplets of sweat on Sam’s upper lip.

Clutching the wheel tight in his hands, Dean looks away. “You’re still not well enough to travel.” Which sounds surly, but dammit, he feels surly.

“Me?” Sam snorts a laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Dean, have you ever thought of yourself first?”

“Yeah – this morning at breakfast. Man, those pancakes were good…”

“I meant, with anything apart from food, stupid!”

Dean shrugs uncomfortably. “I liked it there…” From the corner of his eye, Dean sees Sam turn his head and sigh. But fuck it… That place had been like a dream – three days out of time. Three days of each other. “I liked the lake.”

“Yeah.” Sam nods. And his voice is soft: “Me, too.”

The motel had been on the lake’s edge. Walking around it had given them something to do when they weren’t wrapped together in bed. Three days of healing and fucking. Hell, of actually _making love_. Dean wasn’t sure he’d ever known a time like it.

The blast of a horn startles him. Waving one hand out the window in apology, Dean moves the car another ten feet forward. Stops. Wishes they were somewhere else. Maybe somewhere cold. Somewhere that definitely doesn’t lead to their father. 

But Sam’s stubborn. Insistent. And, truthfully? The command to meet up would have been hard to resist. Even with Sam at his side, Dean knows he’s still conditioned to obey John Winchester. So he tries not to think about it. Tries, very hard, to believe that when the moment comes, he’ll be strong enough to do the right thing.

Next to him, Sam sighs again and Dean looks at him. Wants him – like he’s never wanted anything or anyone. There’s so much intelligence and strength in his brother. So much intensity. Dean shivers – and Sam turns and looks at him, his eyes widening slightly.

Dean lets some of the heat that’s burning him up show in his eyes. Then he reaches across with one hand and slides his thumb across the sweat beading on Sam’s lip. A slow swipe, then he brings the hand to his mouth and licks.

Sam summons a glare. Then the tension dissolves as he laughs, the single sound wrapped in exasperation. “You’re such a cock-tease, Dean.”

“Mmm. Wait until tonight – I’ll do more than tease it…”

“Jesus…” Sam laughs again, and there’s anger and arousal woven into the sound. “You’re whacked. All I can think about is finding Dad, and what that’ll mean – you? You’re not even a bit concerned!”

Sure. Haven’t thought about it for a single moment. _Right_. At least that meant his poker face was still working. “You think that? Really?”

“Yeah – because apart from wanting to spend a few more days at the lake, you’ve haven’t said anything!”

“Like what? ‘Oooh, Sam, I’m terrified of meeting Dad!’” Dean shrugs, puts both hands back on the wheel. “You think I’m looking forward to it? You really think that?”

“Man… No. Not really. Just…” He sighs again, and wipes his palms over his face, pushing the straggly ends of his hair out of his eyes. “It terrifies me. But I want it done.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Good.”

Dean glances sideways, grins. “Though I still want to suck your cock…”

“Ah, you bastard… Fuck it!” Sam leans forward, his hand at his groin to ease the sudden constriction.

Laughing, Dean slaps his brother on the shoulder. “Hey, maybe you need to buy your pants a size bigger? They look a little tight to me.”

“Man, I am so going to kill you…”

Putting a little extra into the pout, Dean looks sorrowful. “Me?”

“You. Now just drive!”

With a barrage of horns sounding behind them, Dean sees that the road is suddenly, miraculously clear. He does just what Sam says – he drives.

:::

Dean flicks his eyes down, checking the gauges. “Sam, I’m gonna stop – we need gas.”

“’kay.” Stirring, almost asleep but not quite, Sam stretches, yawns. “Where are we?”

“South of St Louis.”

Peering around at the wide, open fields and lines of dogwoods, Sam frowns. “What happened to the interstate?”

“It was backed up for miles. This is a short cut.”

“Another one? Yeah, right. Dean – are we actually, you know, lost?”

“Er…not yet.”

“Great.”

“Come on, we can ask directions at the gas station.”

“If there is one…”

“There is – look.” Dean grins, fails to tell Sam that he’s been following signs for the last mile, and pulls into the lot. “ _Bob’s Gas_ \- probably the last gas station in Missouri to have the old, self-serve pumps. Oh, and they let you pay _after_ you fill up.” He pulls up to a pump, grinning widely.

“We’re not going to drive off without paying, because -”

“Hey, we’re not _criminals_! At least, not mostly…”

“That’s reassuring.” Sam’s tone belies the words.

“Come on.” Dean opens his door, letting more wet heat into the car. From the tiny convenience store, Garth Brooks is blasting the air. He clicks Aerosmith off before they can get offended…

Sam’s already out of the car, and he leans back inside to pull his wallet from a jacket pocket. “You want anything?”

“Sure, whatever. Oh, and pick up some sodas, would you?”

“Will do.” 

Dean watches Sam walk across the lot before easing out of the car himself. Mostly he’s healing, as he always does, fast and well. But sitting behind the wheel for such long periods of time is playing hell with his muscles. Stretching helps, and he clasps his hands over his head and arches back until his spine pops deliciously. He sighs in bliss and straightens, Plucking sweat-damp cotton away from the small of his back, making the most of the slight breeze that stirs the vines hanging from the trees. He turns, and through the glass, catches the cashier checking him out. Which is cool. He grins, and just for a moment considers taking his shirt off entirely. Hell, right now their finances are so precarious that even the fake cards are close to being maxed out. A little distraction could be a good thing. Pumping gas naked? That might be a tad obvious. And Sam would kill him. Grinning widely, he unhooks the nozzle and, leaning one hand on the Impala’s hot roof, starts to fill up - giving the guy a good look at his ass.

Gasoline hazes up into the air, distorting his sight, the sharp, intense smell of it hitting his sinuses as he breathes in. It reminds him of being a kid and watching their dad fill up the car, the gas pumping for what felt like hours while he kept watch, ready for whatever, the smell of gas mixing with his father’s sweat.

Shaking himself, Dean focuses.

Turning slightly, he glances sideways. The guy’s still watching, even while he serves Sam, packing goods into a bag.

_Yeah…_

The nozzle clicks of, and Dean slots it back into the pump, wiping his hands on his jeans as he turns. Putting just a little strut into his walk, he fishes a card out his wallet. Alex Armstrong. A good, solid name. Honest. Dean tips a metaphorical nod in Alex’s direction - and pushes through the door, his boots soft on the cracked linoleum floor.

The transaction takes no time at all – the guy likes him. Oh yeah. His eyes hardly look at either the card or the screen, just at Dean. In a different lifetime, Dean might have taken the guy up on the invitation in his eyes and in the way his hand lingers when he hands over the receipt. Now? All he does is smile, and walk away, out the door, grinning back over his shoulder before stepping outside.

Straight into Sam.

“There’s a restroom out back. Go there.”

Dean raises his eyebrows in mystification. “What…”

“Just do it.” Sam leans in. There’s a nerve pulsing in his throat. Dean licks his lips, suddenly breathless. “And call me _sir_ , you slut.”

God… There’s a tightness pulling the skin around Sam’s eyes, a narrowing that strips away any hint of amusement from the cold dark directness of his gaze. Dean feels his own body react instantly, from the tightening of muscles that straighten his spine to the lush _need_ that fills his balls and makes his cock rise up hungrily, trapped tight against soft cotton boxers and jeans. He’s not quite sure what he’s done wrong, but he recognizes punishment when it’s coming for him.

He goes. That he doesn’t stumble is entirely due to luck, because his eyes are blinded by sunlight flashing brilliantly off metal and glaring up off the asphalt.

The restroom door pushes open under his touch. He’s shaking, ready, asshole clutching emptily as he leans against the tiled wall, locking his knees, hands in fists at his sides as the door slams open. Sam doesn’t look at him, he simply shuts the door and snaps the bolt home.

For a long, stretched-out moment, Sam looks around. Dean looks too – though it’s only a basic room with one toilet, a sink and a fly-blown mirror. There’s no window, just a single bulb hanging from an overhead wire. The air stinks of piss, and the floor last saw a mop when JFK was boning movie queens. A tap drips without rhythm, more water drips onto the floor from a cracked pipe. Sam nods - and takes two steps forward, his hands slamming Dean into the wall.

“What the fuck were you doing?”

Dean blinks, utterly confused. “When?”

That earns him a shake, and a flare of emotion in Sam’s eyes that twists through Dean – right down to his balls. 

“Sometimes…” Sam pauses, takes a breath that has to be dragged from deep in his lungs and Dean shivers as something breaks behind the lush hazel eyes. “You want this?” A thigh slams between Dean’s legs, the weight of it pain and dark, wrenching pleasure. “Okay. So, _boy_ , you got it. Kneel.”

Sam growls as he steps back, boots scraping on the wet, gritty floor. His face is pinched, nostrils flaring angrily, and he looks feral, utterly predatory. Dean staggers in his haste to obey, falling to the floor faster than he ever did in any church, water splashing up as his knees hit age-pitted concrete. And he takes Sam’s cock as it’s shoved into his mouth. Forced in – hardly out of Sam’s fly, as Sam’s pushing his jeans down with one hand, holding Dean’s head with his other, forcing his cock inside and _groaning_ as Dean struggles to take it.

“Yesssss… Come on, take it, suck it…” Sam curls both hands into Dean’s hair. Dean looks up through watering eyes, and opens his throat. “Christ, like that, come _on_!”

Digging his fingers into his own thighs, Dean chokes, belly rippling with ineffectual retching as Sam pushes himself deeper, and he’s standing right over Dean, cock angling straight down, his eyes wild, empty of everything but lust as his cock thickens, pulsing deep in Dean’s throat and Sam curses in a slipstream of obscenity as he comes, thick salt spilling up to fill Dean’s mouth.

Sam’s hands are unsteady as he pushes himself back and, fumbling, pulls his zipper back up.

None of the anger has abated.

“Slut.”

Dean swallows. He fixes his gaze on the floor by Sam’s boot. There have been men who liked to play this sort of game. He’d never thought Sam would be one of them.

“What are you?”

There’s no hesitation. Even though this is a game he can play in his sleep, his voice is ridiculously unsteady, caught in the stickiness of semen that coats his teeth and lingers under his tongue. “A slut. Sir.”

“Yeah…” Sam puffs out a breath and turns on his heel, walking two paces before he’s back, standing over Dean, his whole body vibrating with emotion.

Dry-mouthed, Dean risks a glance up, seeing tension knotting the long muscles in Sam’s thighs, and the unabated arousal that’s making a hard ridge under his jeans. Dean’s still not sure what he’s done, but, this? This is something else – and the skin behind his balls is quivering, urging him to lean forward, press his mouth to that ridge of flesh in an act of contrition. To beg for forgiveness, regardless.

“What were you doing? Tell me. Now.”

Dean bites his lip, wonders why there’s not enough air in the room. “Paying for the gas?”

“Not that! Why were you - you _flirting_ with that kid?”

Oh. That. Dean shakes his head, relaxing slightly now he knows what he’s done wrong. “He checked me out. I kept him busy – less chance of him noticing anything wrong with the card. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Goddammit!” Sam’s hand slides through Dean’s hair and pulls his head back. Dean stares up into a storm. “Did you do this for Dad?”

“Yes, sir…” The angle makes talking hard, and Dean’s panting slightly, air clicking as it catches in his throat.

“So, he gave you to strangers in lieu of money?”

Sam…oh, man. Dean wishes he could weep. It’s all so far in the past, and Sam’s so _hurt_ by it all, and what’s the point in that? Words seem strangely alien, like a foreign language trying to form in his mouth, and Dean gives up, shaking his head a little from side to side, feeling every one of Sam’s fingers where they dig into his scalp.

“Did he?” It’s more insistent.

Ah, fuck. “Yes.”

Sam turns away and slams his fist into the wall.

After that there’s silence, broken only by the drip of the tap and their harsh, shocked breathing. Hardly daring to move, Dean stays on his knees, while Sam hunches his shoulders and leans into age-yellowed tiles. His face is hidden, but every line of his body speaks eloquently of anger and despair. For the hundredth time, Dean wishes the past into oblivion.

“Sam…”

“No.” The single-word command stops all the words in Dean’s mouth. Biting his lip, he waits. Sam straightens, touches the tile he punched, then lets his hand fall to his side. A trickle of blood trails down a finger, and drips slowly away, falling onto the floor.

“Okay. I have to get a grip on this.” Sam’s talking to himself, but Dean listens – as much to the unspoken words as those that spill painfully from Sam’s tight mouth. “It happened. And I can’t blame you for using the tricks he taught you to get us through the whole shit business of having no money. But, Dean… please! I…”

He swings away from the wall, and comes to stand over Dean, touching Dean’s face with his bloodied hand, tracing the tip of one finger over the line of jaw and cheekbone, of brow and nose, ending at the point just where the bow of Dean’s lip dips down. A nail scrapes on his skin, and Dean parts his lips, though Sam’s finger just teases delicately over the surface and doesn’t slide inside.

“Okay. Statement of fact: you’re mine. No one else gets a piece of you. Not _anyone_. You can flirt your ass off, but you don’t whore yourself – not even like you did out there. I…” Sam pushes out a harsh breath. “I can’t watch it. I can’t…”

He shivers, and the finger that’s resting on Dean’s lip jerks sharply. With cold water seeping up from the puddle he’s kneeling in, and the scent of Sam’s blood-streaked skin swamping his senses, Dean can only blink in acknowledgement. And sigh as the finger finally moves, touching his teeth, rubbing past and along them, pushing across his tongue, tasting of salt and the thick meatiness of skin-warm blood.

The skin over Sam’s knuckles is broken. It scrapes softly against Dean’s lips as Sam pushes his hand deeper, forcing Dean’s jaw to stretch wide as fingers curl over and under his tongue. He holds still. Takes it. All the while staring into Sam’s luminously bright eyes, into the implacable steadiness that’s forced its way through all the misery.

There, in eyes that are simultaneously like and unlike his own, Dean sees their father. The realization is so sharp that he almost flinches, but Sam holds him, fingers hooking him back, and the moment skims away in the rush of Sam’s desire.

“You’re mine.” Sam rubs his hand back and forth, hissing softly as Dean licks at torn skin, swallowing iron-tainted saliva. “We can do this. We have to…”

And the plurality in that statement almost breaks Dean. He shudders, almost gagging, but the hand slips from his mouth and he licks his swollen lips, panting slightly, watching as Sam flexes his fingers, the skin slick, shining wetly in the stark light.

“Dean, I’m going to fuck you now.”

Still kneeling, Dean almost moans…

“Get up – and brace against the sink.”

His thoughts feel scattershot. Because this is as if Sam’s tapping into his psyche and seeing exactly what he wants. And maybe his brother is doing just that. Which is okay. But…underneath the impulse that’s taken him up off the floor and made him lean over the sink, with his eyes avoiding looking into the sepia-flecked mirror, there’s confusion. Doubt that this is right. He should be able to find some other way to make Sam feel better. Make Sam hurt less.

Something must have shown in his averted face, because Sam, touches him – his hand gentle as it curves around his shoulder. “Shhhh…”

Dean feels the muscles in his back knot and he can’t stop them. Can’t do anything but stand, leaning over, his head dropping as Sam moves to stand behind him, his body curling around Dean’s, long and strong and _enveloping_. Sam holds him, presses his cheek to the dip between Dean’s hunched shoulders and sighs, just the once.

“I love you.”

Dean closes his eyes. He knows he’s strung so tight he’s pretty much quivering. But…Oh God…

“I’ll be whatever you want, Dean. Anything. I’ll love you, hurt you, fuck you – and I’ll also _make love_ with you. And want you. And be jealous and envious and fight anyone or anything that tries to take you away from me.”

His hands slide around Dean’s waist to tug down his zipper, tug open the button and to push at denim and cotton until Dean’s standing in a pool of fabric, his cock knocking on porcelain with every beat of his heart. Dean clutches at the sink, his fingers slippery with sweat as Sam works his own jeans open, and the heat and length of him is pressed tightly against Dean’s ass.

“Ask me.”

Dean has to try a couple of times before his mouth will work. In the end he manages, “Please…”

“Please what?”

“Please… sir…”

“Again!”

“Please sir, fuck me. Make me yours…”

“Yeah. Jesus, yeah - like that.” Sam spits, works his cock, his knuckles brushing Dean’s skin as he slicks himself in readiness. “Look up. Look into my eyes.”

Slowly, dragging his gaze away from the faucet, Dean obeys. Meets mirror-intensity. Somehow, he keeps looking, even through Sam angling himself up and against Dean’s body, through the wide cock-head finally forcing its way past the tight constriction of his muscles.

When Sam pauses, both of them are panting, wide-eyed, wrapped in the thousand eddies of emotion - of need and longing - that sweep like an ocean through the room.

Sam pushes in, and Dean sees the pleasure that tightens the skin around his eyes and makes his lips pale almost to whiteness. What Sam sees in his own face, Dean doesn’t know, but Sam groans and tilts his hips, not stopping until the roughness of his balls is pressed to skin, and Dean’s open, all the way, his body rippling with reaction, his asshole spasming erratically around the intruding flesh.

Hands slide around his torso, calluses scraping as Sam rubs under his T-shirt, palms dragging over his nipples, pulling him back until he’s standing, braced only by Sam’s hands, supported by his failing legs and the spike of Sam’s cock.

“Look at yourself.”

And he does. Sees a man, tousled and sweating, with eyes so dark and lust-blown that he looks drugged, slack-mouthed with arousal, his body held, explored, _owned_. His cock a spearing shaft of darkly reddened need, that’s spilling precum until it’s trailing in spools that catch on the sink’s edge before falling to the floor.

“You’re beautiful. Dean, this is what I love. All of you. Every bit. This is what I want forever. Understand?”

Dean nods. He understands. Even though words are something he doesn’t really comprehend anymore.

“Come for me. Touch yourself…”

_Yes._ Dean reaches, folds his fingers around the heat of his own flesh and jerks. It takes almost no time, and he watches himself, watches the muscles in his belly tense under Sam’s hands, watches his mouth as it opens, widens in what could be pain or pleasure. Watches as his cock spurts, spunk shooting up, hitting his chest, dripping over his fingers, spattering on the filthy sink.

He’d fall, but Sam holds him. Whispering something, nothing, anything, as he pumps his hips and comes too, his cock swelling, filling Dean as he sways, his senses as blown as his eyes.

:::

They drive into Sioux City just before dark. There’s hardly been a word said since they walked, together, out of the restroom where Sam had taken Dean, and given up himself as well. Tomorrow they’ll meet their father. Tomorrow, everything will be different. Both of them know it. And serenity wraps them, good and strange, like a foreign fruit that tastes both bitter and sweet on the tongue.


End file.
